


Above all, Watch With Glittering Eyes

by JovialHarp5159



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, Did I Mention Fluff, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, like TOOTH ROTTING fluff, superfamily if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 06:58:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13141440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JovialHarp5159/pseuds/JovialHarp5159
Summary: “And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.” -- Roald DahlAn AU where Steve never takes the Shield back up, and Tony never comes forward as Iron Man, and they fall hopelessly, completely, totally, in love anyway.





	Above all, Watch With Glittering Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my contribution to the SteveTonySecretSanta writing challenge, Merry Christmas, and I hope you like it!
> 
> Starts just after the end of Captain America: the First Avenger, Ignores the canon ending for the first Iron Man movie.
> 
> Has mentions to 616 canon, and International iron man, though it's by no means required reading to get this fic!
> 
> Tony has a different last name for most of this fic!

It’s been two days, three hours, forty seven minutes, and nineteen seconds since Steve had woken up in a fake rehabilitation room (or a real rehabilitation room, with fake décor, and a fake nurse, he still hasn’t really worked that out) and he already hates what the world has become. Everything is too loud, too bright,  too… wrong. Entirely too alien and wrong. It’s like something out of a HYDRA Christmas catalogue, tech and lights, and sounds every which way you turn. It makes him sick.

 

Nick Fury, the most stern faced person Steve’s ever seen-- aside from the exception of Colonel Phillips, who perpetually looked like his son had just told him that he wanted to become a professional unicyclist—sits heavily on a wheeled office chair in front of the too cushy couch that some agent showed Steve to, after they’d finally convinced him out of the gym that he’d been haunting like some malevolent ghost. The director asks Steve if he wants to take the shield and cowl back up, assures him that his secret identity from the ‘40’s was never revealed, even after they’d declared him KIA, and the only response that Steve can think of, is derisive laughter. It isn’t exactly in keeping with manners, but then, those seem more like a suggestion than anything in this strange age, and Steve thinks, maybe, that it can be excused.

 

“No.” Fury raises an eyebrow, looks Steve over with a skeptical eye and takes a long moment to consider what he’s going to say.

 

“You’d be helping a lot of—”

 

Steve doesn’t give him the chance to finish whatever that thought might be, because he’s been guilted by enough military brass, that he knows a dressing down when he hears one.

 

“I don’t owe you anything. You, or anyone else. New York still exists because of me. I’m the reason that it isn’t a red skull shaped hole in the ground, I’m done. Sir.”

 

Fury shakes his head at that, stands from the chair, and straightens the trench coat he’s wearing. He mutters something about ‘being in touch’, and Steve doesn’t see him again. it’s a pretty blonde girl, some agent 13, that brings him the reassignment. Her S.H.I.E.L.D. issue identification badge says her last name is Carter, and that causes his chest to twinge painfully in memory.

  
“You’ll still be with S.H.I.E.L.D., the high value target we have you assigned to is of strategic importance to our organization, as well as the department of defense.” Her voice is soft and warm, but there’s a certain ‘no nonsense’ tone to her words too, and the memory of Peggy thrums that much stronger.

 

“so, bodyguard.” Steve mutters to himself. It’s really not that bad of a job, low pressure compared to super heroing, and it’s not like he doesn’t have the body, the training, and the aptitude for it. “Who’s the target?”

 

Agent 13 tosses down a dossier, kept together neatly with a length of twine, though the manila folder that screams ‘military issue’ is still bursting at the seams. Whoever this is for, clearly has a record and a half.

 

“Tony Armstrong. Former weapons manufacturer for the Department of Defense, CEO of Stark industries, billionaire, philanthropist, playboy.” Steve raises an eyebrow at that. The name Stark, he knows.

 

“Stark, as in… Howard Stark?” agent 13 nods, but offers nothing else, leaving the room shortly after. Always something to do, in a shadow government agency, Steve supposes. he smiles to himself, looking back to the dossier, and flipping it open. It’s nice, that his old friend managed to make something of himself. Build an empire, and carry on his work. He doesn’t know who this Tony is, but he figures if he has to watch someone, it’s nice that he’s watching the person who’s in control of Howards legacy. Maybe this won’t be so bad. A photograph falls out, a snapshot of Tony. He looks handsome, in that devil-may-care kind of way, a gentle wave of cedar brown hair, sunglasses pushed high up into it. He wore a faded shirt that had definitely seen better days, and jeans with holes and tears all through them. Almost everything about him seemed carefully constructed to be unremarkable, but the thing that kept drawing Steve in was his eyes. they were brown, but only insomuch, as the sky was ‘blue’ or the sun was ‘yellow’, ‘brown’ didn’t seem to be nearly enough of a description for the color that those eyes were.

 

Steve huffed, and slapped the folder closed, stashing it in his desk, and flopping down into the horrifically uncomfortable bed S.H.I.E.L.D. had provided him. He told himself that it was simple artistic fascination that was to blame, for his dreams of rich, dark, glittering eyes.

 

***

Tony Armstrong, is loud, brash, and interestingly enough, prone to accidents. Steve’s only been assigned to him for four days, twelve hours, and twenty three seconds, and he’s already almost killed himself a grand total of nineteen times. Most of that was resultant of the things he did in his own workshop though, and Steve’s not… exactly where his jurisdiction is there. He’s supposed to keep Tony safe from other people, so all bets should realistically be off in regards to what he does to himself, but that seems unfairly literal. Especially, considering the fact that the things he’s working on are purely for the good of other people.

 

Tony’s working on some kind of prosthesis program, it looks crazy scientific, all bright gleaming metals, and flexible plates that move with a fluidity that seems impossible. A few of the more ‘pet project’ pieces can do truly miraculous things, like repel bullets, and crush with the strength of a coconut crabs claw, but by and large, they’re just arms and legs, and the odd hand, waiting for a recipient.

 

The seventeenth time that Tony manages to nearly take himself out, he’s trying to wire an arm to work with the repulsor tech that weaponizes the Iron Man suit, and enables it to flight. Steve knows that Tony is the one who created the suit, but what he doesn’t know, is who pilots it. It’s got to be someone enhanced, as close as he can tell, because surely no mere mortal man could handle being shaken around inside a tin can, or a gold titanium alloy can, as the case may be.

 

Tony was constantly turning up with injuries that looked like they might be consistent with that kind of treatment, and for a time, a period of hours really, Steve had wondered if it wasn’t possible for Tony to be the one in the suit, if he had abilities that he wasn’t letting on about. It was a good theory, and there seemed to be evidence that pointed either way, but then Steve turned up for work, another day of watching the businessman work books for Stark industries, and a petty criminal had decided he liked his chances of taking over the world, starting with Manhattan, and Iron Man had flown off to save the day, alongside a handful of other heroes, and Tony sat leafing through last quarters sales as pleased as punch, and Steve thought to himself maybe sometimes a duck was a duck, and a guy in an expensive Armani suit was just a guy in an expensive Armani suit.

 

***

If self-preservation (a thing that Steve was beginning to think might have been a foreign concept for Tony) wasn’t reason enough to prove that he couldn’t be Iron Man, Peter and Harley, were. The kids were Tony’s sons, and from what Steve could see, the light of his life, though he seriously doubted he’d ever admit that out loud. For one, they both tended to have a competitive streak, and saying that would probably start world war three, in regards to who exactly was /more/ the light of his life.

 

Closest Steve can tell, neither of them are Tony’s biologically, they’re both adopted. Steve had wanted to ask, but it seemed like an awfully personal conversation, and as the bodyguard, it isn’t his place. That doesn’t stop them, however, from starting an interesting argument over captain crunch and cream of wheat.

 

Harley smirks, and shoveles yet another way too big bite of overly sugary crap into his mouth, gesturing disdainfully at Peters more nutritionally sound breakfast of choice. “why do you eat that crap. Just cause your aunt’s like a thousand years old doesn’t mean you are.”

 

Long since used to his type of verbal abuse, Peter does little more than roll his eyes. “she’s not a thousand years old. Just because she’s in a nursing home doesn’t mean she’s geriatric, you Neanderthal.”

 

Steve tenses, where he’s leaned up against the kitchen counter, and flicks his eyes over to Tony, to gage his reaction. Which is… nothing. He’s staring uninterrupted, at his StarkPad, sipping his coffee. Figures he’s used to this by now.

 

“You can’t call me a Neanderthal!” his eyes flash for a second, the only sign that he’s panicking, and it’s maybe the span of a single second, before he’s continuing, assured of his own words. “My mom and sister are dead, I have no family, you’re contractually obligated to be nice to me!”

 

Steve has to use his hand to stifle the laugh that’s begging to break out, and he miraculously manages to disguise it as a cough. Tony, for his part, merely rolls his eyes, and takes another sip of his coffee. Peter’s only thrown for a second or two before he’s retaliating.

 

“Both my parents, and my uncle are dead, you dick, beat that!”

 

This time, Steve doesn’t manage to keep the laugh back, and Tony looks at him, from over the top of his coffee cup. Steve isn’t sure what he’s expecting to see reflected in those chestnut brown eyes, but it isn’t the animation and sparkle of amusement, and intrigue. Steve’s chest clenches up in something resembling nerves, for the first time in 67 years.

 

***

By November, Steve and Tony are good friends. Steve is pretty much the only bodyguard left on day shift, aside from his Tuesday off, and even then, he stops by to visit either Tony, or the kids more often than not. When the invitation for Thanksgiving comes, Steve isn’t exactly surprised, but he’s beyond flattered, and squarely into a ‘touched’ territory. Everything goes wonderfully, except the turkey catches fire, which for half of a second is terrifying, but Harley is fast with the extinguisher, and Peter finds a nice Spanish Bodega that’s open through the holiday, which means that they’re able to get pre-sliced turkey, that’s a lot less clean up anyway.

 

There’s a teary moment or two, where Peter insists they all mention what it is they’re thankful for. Harley says he’s glad he doesn’t spend his days alone anymore, and Peter quietly thanks Tony for the care his aunt May receives at the nursing home she’s apparently in. Tony blushes prettily, and makes a few vague hand gestures, and suddenly it clicks into place, for Steve. Tony’s paying for her to be there. The moment passes quickly enough, and Tony jokingly says his thanks for the almighty coffee bean. Steve’s noticed that the engineer tends to do that, use sarcasm and jokes as a form of deflection. He wonders what it is the man has to hide from so adamantly, but three pairs of eyes are on him, and he realizes that it’s his turn.

 

“Uh.” He says intelligently, dropping his blue eyes to the tabletop uncomfortably. He hasn’t really spent long thinking about what exactly it is that he’s thankful for. He supposes that maybe, he’s thankful for not having to carry the shield again, for being able to just _be_ , but he’s not sure that he wants to trust anyone with that secret yet. He looks up, and his blue eyes fall on Tony’s patiently waiting brown ones. His heart skips a beat, like when he was young and the arrhythmia bothered him, any time he ran after Bucky, or found his way into yet another backstreet brawl. It’s just distracting enough that it’s hard to speak, and he tells himself that it’s the reason for the way his voice sounds rough and used when he answers simply with “a second chance.”

 

***

Tony Armstrong is _entirely_ too excited about Christmas. The tower is decked top to bottom in lights, tinsel, garland and popcorn strings. Steve keeps wondering when the festivity is going to stop, but it never does, and for some reason, he kind of loves that. He’d never been too huge on Christmas himself, he and his ma were usually too flat broke to really do anything, and Bucky’s family was Jewish Rroma, so they did Chanukkiah instead. He’d been fully expecting to ignore the holiday in its entirety, but Tony clearly wouldn’t stand for that.

 

“It’s Christmas, Stevie!” he pouted, pouring something amber perhaps a little too liberally into a gigantic bowl of homemade eggnog. Steve has to clear his throat to hide the way that the nickname makes his voice go weak, and he shakes his head in an effort to look business as usual.

“It’s Christmas eve, and what does that have to do with anything, Tony, I’m on duty.” Steve offers with a smile.

 

The engineer pouts even more, and rolls his eyes, setting the crystal decanter heavily down onto the counter. It’s late, and the kids are in one of the lounges, binging old holiday specials, and eating honestly worrying amounts of junk food. It’s been just Tony and Steve down in the kitchen, making cookies and chatting for hours. Tony’s had his standard old-fashioned glass less than half full of an expensive Scotch, and he’s bubbly happy, but it’s more from the overwhelming amount of holiday spirit than from anything else. One of the details that Steve remembers from the dossier is that Tony has a history with addiction, so he doesn’t say anything out loud, but he’s truthfully, very proud of him for restraining.

 

Tony steps closer, and narrows his warm eyes at Steve. “Okay, you might be on duty, but I’m your boss, and if I say that you should have a cookie, you’re like. Contractually obligated.”

 

Steve has about a thousand arguments to that, just ready and waiting on the tip of his tongue, propriety, and manners, and morality aside, but with Tony in his space, he can’t seem to manage to get any of them out. He takes a breath that’s rougher than he imagines it has any right to be, and closes his eyes on a soft sigh. “Don’t suppose you’re going to let it go any time soon?”

 

Tony smiles, and shakes his head, an evil grin splitting his face. “absolutely not a chance in hell.”

 

Steve sighs again, and rolls his eyes in defeat. “Fine then, give me a coo—” the engineer moves in the span of a heartbeat, entirely too fast for what could be humanly feasible, and before Steve’s even aware of what’s happening, there’s a sugar cookie being shoved into his mouth, and one Tony Armstrong smiling at him impishly.

The soft, rich cookie tastes dry and inedible, in the sudden Sahara of Steve’s mouth.

 

He isn’t going to say they’ve been flirting over the last month, but he isn’t going to discount the idea either. There’s a thick, heavy silence that falls between them, as his brain scrambles through the last 30 days, twenty-three hours, twenty-seven minutes. The serum hives him the benefit of an eidetic memory, so picking apart every interaction they’ve had since Thanksgiving is easy. It’s probably only three or four seconds of oppressive silence, but to Steve it feels like a lifetime.

 

A quiet huff of breath is knocked out of his chest, when the realization hits him. Tony Armstrong is _hitting_ on him. “’ony?” Steve tries, cookie still hanging out of his mouth. Something flashes across the engineer’s face, and he’s taking a step back, out of Steve’s space. Steve, of course, panics. “Uh, Tony, I-I don’t… I didn’t—”

The brunette is shaking his head, and already heading for the stairs to his personal office, where he does the books. “Rogers, follow me.”

 

Steve wants to argue, wants to retreat, and hide like the overgrown child he is. He’s gotten something horrifically wrong here, misread some message, and missed his chance. He desperately wants to rewind time a few hours, try all over again, or better yet, politely take the fucking cookie and avoid this situation entirely, like the master tactician he’s supposed to be. He wants to melt into the floor, and disappear, but Tony’s form has already retreated, and there really isn’t any other option than to follow him.

 

Steve is careful with his steps, lightly placing one foot in front of the other, and trying to be as small in the environment as he possibly can. He feels like a kid again, like when he knew he had what for coming from his ma, but she wasn’t done fixing dinner, or washing the dishes. The weight of dread presses in on him from all sides, and he’s relatively certain that he can feel himself going mad with the anticipation. Tony offers no kind of succor either, silent and deliberate in his movements. Steve’s almost ready to heave a sigh of relief when they reach the private office, because at least he won’t have to play the ‘what if’ game anymore.

 

He’s expecting Tony to sit at his heavy ornate desk, or take up a seat on the overstuffed armchair facing the window, or, hell, remain standing and face him directly, what he isn’t expecting, is for the smaller man to move to the breaker box, next to a bookcase, and flip a switch. He’s in the middle of wondering what the hell he could possibly be doing, when he takes a step forward, and swings the case wide, like the false door it is. Steve must make some sound of surprise, because in the next instant, Tony is smirking at him, hand on the door, holding it open behind him.

 

“keep your mouth open like that, some opportunistic bug is likely to fly right in.” he teases softly, jerking his head into the room.  Steve, who would usually snark back in kind, has on recourse other than to snap his mouth shut, and follow Tony into the previously secret room.

 

What’s waiting on the other side is… _not_ what Steve was expecting, to say the least. The room is fundamentally a Captain America museum. There are posters, cards, comics, and propaganda arranged lovingly all over the room. He collection was clearly curated by a fan, that much is evident from the inset lighting, and protective cases over almost everything. There isn’t a single speck of dust anywhere in this room, and that’s nearly staggering to Steve. If that wasn’t enough to fully rob the air out of his lungs, the centerpiece on the right wall, is. Mounted in a plexiglass case, polished to a high shine, is the dented, rusted, well loved shield that Steve had carried onstage for every USO appearance. He moves to sink his hand into his pockets, in an effort to hide the way that seeing all of this has staggered him.

 

“quite a collection you have here… didn’t peg you for a Captain America fan. Isn’t he… kinda overly righteous?” Steve’s damn _proud_ of the way his voice comes across casual.

 

Tony smirks, and leans up against a miraculously bare section of wall. “maybe a little, yeah. But he’s an icon.” There’s an awkward pause, where the two of them appear to be weighing each other carefully. Tony breaks it eventually, his voice more quiet and unsure than it had been before. “he’s important to me. I grew up on Cap stories. My… my father did a lot of work for project rebirth.”

 

Steve’s eyes narrow against his will, as he quickly turns over all of his memories from the war. He’d met almost every single scientist, nurse, physicist, that had anything to do with project insight, hell, he even shook the hand of the janitor that mopped the floor that day, he’d been so damn eager not to be a tiny broken thing anymore. He couldn’t remember a single Armstrong, that had anything to do with _anything_ about project rebirth. He wants to take another look at his memories, comb through them again, but he _knows_ he remembers it all, and he knows he isn’t wrong.

 

“is that so?” he settles on finally, unwilling to offer up more than that. Tony nods, like he’d been expecting an answer like that, which is more confusing than anything else is. Well. At least, until he opens his mouth again.

 

“Yeah. He created the vita ray. Not to mention half the weapons Cap ever touched, HYDRA swag not included.” Steve feels something ugly cross his face, and a muscle in his jaw tics and jumps with the effort of restraint.

 

“Howard Stark created the Vita-Ray, Tony.” He knows he sounds angry, and he hates that, but he’ll be damned if Howards memory is misrepresented. Tony takes a step forward, and sticks his hand out, like he’s waiting for a handshake.

 

“I know he did. We haven’t met. Not really. Anthony Edward Armstrong, Stark, until ’91, when I found out the heir to the Stark fortune, wasn’t. thanks, Howard.”

 

Steve’s mind boggles, and he’s pretty sure that he actually staggers for a moment. He wants to argue, but the words make too much sense, it clears up too many questions. Why Tony’s the CEO of Stark Industries, the interest in Captain America, even the family resemblance, that Steve’d been denying to himself for months now. He can’t think of a single thing to say, and he must look like a fish out of water, his mouth opening and closing repeatedly, with nothing intelligent coming out. Tony smiles softly, and nods, like he’d gotten the answer to a question he’d been asking for a long time.

 

“So, you are him.” His voice is quiet, but Steve can’t figure out if its disappointment, awe, or something else entirely. He clears his throat thickly, and nods, looking down at the floor between them, which has cruelly still failed to open up and swallow him.

 

“yeah. I’m him. How’d you know?” Tony shrugs, and folds his arms across his chest.

 

“few little things. Way you talk, way nothing is ever too heavy for you, the punching bag you destroyed the first week you worked here. You can blame structural integrity as much as you want, but I’m a physicist, Steve.”

 

Steve feels himself blush, and he nods, digging his hands further into his pockets. He’s still death glaring the floor, like he has a personal grudge with it, and wondering what to say, so he doesn’t exactly notice Tony stepping closer, until a gentle hand is resting on the side of his face, right over his jawline. Under normal circumstances, Steve would probably startle, probably step back, but this is Tony, and he’s more comfortable with him than he is any other human being alive on the face of the planet so it kind of makes sense that all he does, is look up and smile softly.

 

The heavy, awkward feeling from earlier in the kitchen is back, and Steve feels a fluttering in his stomach again, but this time, instead of terror, it feels a lot more like excitement. He moves to open his mouth, to find something to say, some excuse to make, or half-assed apology for not ‘fessing up sooner, but nothing that comes to mind sounds right. He makes a snap decision, and leans into Tony’s space, brushing the lightest of kisses against his lips.

 

The kiss is relatively chaste, though it’s lingering and slow. It isn’t rushed, there’s no urgency, it’s patient, and giving, like everything that cheesy songs, sappy poetry says it should be. It probably only lasts a few seconds, but as Steve pulls away, he feels like years could have passed, outside of the perfect bubble of calm that they’re surrounded in. his breath comes with difficulty for a few more beats, and his lips where they’d touched Tony’s, feel absolutely electric. He huffs out a quiet breath, and leans to rest his forehead against Tony’s, a touch that the brunette leans into, which makes Steve feel like he belongs in a way he never had, even in his own time.

 

There’s a million things that Steve wants to say, but one thing stands out more than any other. “I’m not the only one keeping secrets, am I?” he says it whisper soft, the words barely making any sound in the space between them, but Tony clearly hears them, if his resulting huff of laughter is any indication.

 

“No. No, you’re not.” His voice is soft, tinged with what seems like regret, or guilt, but Steve doesn’t begrudge him wanting to keep his identity a secret. God knows there are enough people out there willing and ready to hurt heroes, or the ones close to them. It’s understandable.

 

There’s a chime, a deep, resonant thing from the grandfather clock that inhabits the office on the other side of the book shelf, and Steve smiles, happy to see time passing, for the first time, in a long time.

 

“Merry Christmas, Tony.” Tony smiles, and presses another gentle kiss to Steve’s mouth, off center, toward the corner.

 

“Merry Christmas, Stevie.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream at me on tumblr, where I occasionally do things, just like this Fic! @thejovialkynnadyg-ray


End file.
